Called from the Shadows
by Wtiger5
Summary: A retelling of Aragorn's calling Faramir back from the brink when he was afflicted with the Black Breath. Competition piece for Teitho Challenge: Sickness


_A/N: Submitted for the Teitho challenge Sickness where it remained unplaced. Thanks to Linda Hoyland for the beta work. I do not own LOTR. It all belongs to JRR Tolkien._

"Nazgul! Make for the White City!" Faramir spurred his horse at the rear of his men, trying to keep them together as a regimented formation in order to keep them from being overwhelmed by panic. He scanned the sky looking for the wraiths. The cries of the Orcs and Southrons whirled around him as he attempted to rally his men.

"Faramir!" Anborn's shout warned him and he drew his sword, quickly blocking a descending blade. The impact shot through his weary arms and he fought to keep his seat. The lack of sleep over the last few days was being to take its toll on him. Over the clamour of the battle, he heard the clear sound of a trumpet blast. His heart leapt at the sight of his uncle's Swan Knights thundering toward him. Suddenly, a sharp pain pierced his shoulder and he felt himself falling. He struck the ground hard and darkness took him.

* * *

Faramir slowly opened his eyes into a dreary grey stillness. He lay on his back surrounded by a cold mist while unfamiliar sounds assailed him. Slowly, he rose and turned around, staring into the mist trying to determine his location.

"Hello?" His voice sounded weak to his ears. He took a few hesitant steps hoping to find something familiar.

"Faramir!"

He spun quickly, searching for a voice he'd not heard since childhood.

"Mother?"

"Faramir? Faramir, where are you?"

The Ranger Captain turned again. Another familiar voice sounding in the mist, this one from a different direction. His brother called to him again.

"Faramir!"

Faramir closed his eyes, attempting to calm his panic. Boromir and his mother were dead. It was not possible for them to be calling to him. His head spun as he weakly sank to the damp ground. Once again, the darkness claimed him and he knew no more.

* * *

Imrahil paced by his nephew's bedside. He knew he should be attending to matters in the City but he couldn't bring himself to leave the younger man's sick room. He had remained with his kinsman while Aragorn with Éomer at his side, examined Merry and the Lady Éowyn. Beregond had joined him as he kept watch.

"Will he live?" asked the Guardsman.

Imrahil shook his head. "I do not know. I fear his fever is not of this world. His wound was not mortal and should not be causing such illness."

Beregond made to speak before he was interrupted by the return of Aragorn, Éomer and the healer Ioreth. Aragorn turned to the healer as they entered.

"_And now, dame, if you love the Lord Faramir, run as quick as your tongue and get me kingsfoil, if there is a leaf in the City."_ 1

Once Ioreth had left, Aragon placed a hand on the young Steward's brow. "His time is short. Yet his shoulder wound is healing. Was the arrow kept by the one who drew it forth?"

"I removed it but I did not keep it," said Imrahil. "There was much work to be done and I did not think to do so. It was a Southron arrow but I cannot explain his fever other than the wound itself."

"_Weariness, grief for his father's mood, a wound, and over all the Black Breath," said Aragorn. "He is a man of staunch will, for already he had come close under the Shadow before ever he rode to battle on the out-walls. Slowly the dark must have crept on him, even as he fought and strove to hold his outpost."_2

* * *

Faramir slowly opened his eyes once more to see that he remained in the oppressive mist. The voices of his mother and brother still called to him, yet more voices were raised to his ears as well. Voices of his Rangers slain in battle, friends lost to the ravages of famine and war, even a new voice that reminded him of his father. But that could not be. His father was whole and hale when he had seen him last. He tried to rise but he felt weighed down by weariness and pain. The mist closed in around him, swirling, shifting, and tricking both his eyes and his mind. Fear beset him as his heart began to race with unending panic. Finally finding purchase, he scrambled to his feet and began to run, searching for something, anything that would lead him to a place of safety.

He had no idea how long he ran, but despair overcame him as the mist remained unchanged. He stumbled to a halt, his legs shaking, and his chest heaving. He fell to the ground in pain, lost without hope. "Ilúvatar, I beg you. Please send me aid." Faramir whispered the words with the last of his strength.

"Faramir!"

Faramir's eyes opened as a new clear voice called his name. He struggled to lift his head, his mind racing.

He knew that voice but he didn't know why. His eyes scanned the mist, yet wonder filled him as it seemed to be fading.

"Faramir?"

"I'm here!" The words formed on his lips though he didn't have the strength to utter them. Suddenly a hand grasped his and strength was there for him to use. His vision focused on the Man who knelt beside him.

"Come with me. I will lead you home."

* * *

Aragorn opened his eyes as Bergil ran into the room with the athelas leaves. He smiled at the lad before crushing two of the leaves and dropping them into the bowl of water prepared by one of the women of the Houses. All present felt the air come alive as the scent of the leaves filled the room.

Aragorn held the bowl close to his patient as he allowed the steam to waft over the Steward's face. Faramir's breathing deepened and he shifted, opening his eyes and blinking up at the Man bending over him.

"_My lord, you call me. I come. What does the king command?"_

"_Walk no more in the shadows, but awake!" said Aragorn. "You are weary. Rest a while, and take food, and be ready when I return."_

"_I will, lord," said Faramir. "For who would lie idle when the king has returned?"3_

* * *

1 The Lord of the Rings, Houses of Healing.

2 The Lord of the Rings, Houses of Healing.

3 The Lord of the Rings, Houses of Healing.


End file.
